


after hours

by brideofquiet



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Barebacking, Boss/Employee Relationship, Chef Bucky Barnes, Chef Steve Rogers, Dom/sub Undertones, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Workplace Sex, and being stern, nobody tell the health inspector anything, steve's love language is cooking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:47:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25387792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brideofquiet/pseuds/brideofquiet
Summary: None of it’s exactly how Bucky pictured working for a chef he’s admired since he was a teenager, from the food style to the fucking—but he likes it. Wouldn’t trade it.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 132
Kudos: 1041





	after hours

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [VenusMonstrosa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/venusmonstrosa) for being incredibly patient while I've noodled with six different versions of this since January. Come say hi on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/bride_ofquiet) if you, you know, like that.

It’s a hell of a night. The staff is stressed, and Bucky is no different. He trains his attention on his station—where it’s supposed to be, where he needs it—as much as he can help it, but out of the corner of his eye, he keeps tabs on his head chef.

Rogers is casual in a crossback apron and plain black t-shirt. With the rest of the chefs and line cooks in crisp white coats, you could almost mistake him for a dishwasher—almost. He inspects plates with a deep pinch in his brow and a napkin in one hand, wiping edges clean before he sets dishes on the pass. The front-of-house manager, Natasha, leans in the open arch that splits the kitchen and dining room. Bucky can’t hear them but he can see their mouths moving, speaking rapid fire in the way only two people who have worked together for a long, long time can do. They’ve got these complementary energies, Bucky thinks—firm and unflappable. The first time he was in the room with both of them, he thought they were married.

He’d been wrong.

As if sensing Bucky’s eyes on his back, Rogers turns. Bucky jerks back to life, putting his hands where they need to be as Rogers walks deeper into the kitchen. He calls out his time and keeps working like Rogers isn’t prowling down the line like a drug dog, sniffing out mistakes.

“Barnes,” he hears over his shoulder. “You’re holding up?”

“Yes, chef.”

Then there’s a spoon pressing into the lamb Bucky is resting before it gets plated—dipping into his sauces to taste them. Bucky doesn’t have the time or the room to turn around, but he feels the solid wall of Rogers behind him. How the air feels suddenly warmer. The kitchen is too loud to hear Rogers mumbling to himself about taste and texture, but Bucky knows he’s doing it because he’s seen him do it a hundred times—he talks to himself. Maybe it’s calming.

“You’re putting too much char on these,” Rogers says, and the fact that Bucky can hear each word means it’s for him. “This sauce is too thick—thin it out.”

“Yes, chef,” Bucky repeats.

A hand touches the small of his back—so barely there Bucky could have imagined it, but he knows he didn’t. The air whooshes out of his lungs all at once. By the time he glances over his shoulder Rogers is already moving down the line, but Bucky lets himself look at Steve’s profile for just a moment. There’s sweat on his brow and his cheeks are pink from nose to temple—it’s hot near all these stovetops.

Bucky spends the rest of the evening careful not to over-char the lamb, and trying not to think about when he’s made Chef Rogers look flushed and sweating like that.

  
  


Bucky has slept with his boss four times in the six months that they’ve worked together. The first time was mostly an accident, five months ago, the night of the opening—a whirlwind of an evening. This is Rogers’ third restaurant—the first he opened back when Bucky was still in high school, teaching classmates to dice onions in culinary class—and his most personal, too. Brooklyn’s prodigal son finally returning to the borough after years in Manhattan, then a few where he dropped off the face of the damn planet—and now he’s come storming back onto the scene with a new venture, something a little more rustic, and thank God he’d had his own capital by that point because no one wanted to invest in a homestyle restaurant from the classically trained French chef who fucked up the order in the culinary world when he dared to pay his staff a living wage.

He named it Sarah, after his mother, whose picture hangs in his shoebox office. He doesn’t talk about her. Bucky looked it up; he found her obit from six years ago.

By opening night Bucky still barely knew him but respected the hell out of him—knew that in another life, if Rogers wasn’t his boss, he would’ve taken him home the first night he met him. As it was, whatever energy Rogers was riding on opening night, he didn’t seem to mind when Bucky got a little too drunk and a little too close to him at the after party. Seemed to enjoy himself when they wound up in a locked bathroom stall with Bucky on his knees and Steve’s hands in his hair, holding him steady while Steve fucked his mouth till his jaw popped.

They didn’t talk about it the next day—too busy prepping for dinner service to bother. It didn’t matter anyway, Bucky decided. They’d both had something to get out of their system, and now it was out.

Until it happened again two months later, this time in Steve’s office—and then again three weeks after that, at Bucky’s apartment in the middle of the night.  _ You can tell me to stop, _ Steve told him.  _ We probably should.  _ Kept mumbling about the power dynamics of employer and employee and what Bucky deserved until Bucky shut him up with a fierce kiss.  _ Don’t. Don’t stop, _ he said, and then later he cried it as he came with Steve’s cock lodged deep inside him.

Steve is probably right—they should lay off. But Bucky keeps finding himself asking, what’s the harm, really? It’s not as if either of them have the time to date in this line of work. The sex is spectacular. No one’s wise to them except maybe Natasha, but Bucky thinks Steve may have just outright told her anyway since she’s his friend.

None of it’s exactly how he pictured working for a chef he’s admired since he was a teenager, from the food style to the fucking—but he likes it. Wouldn’t trade it. He calls himself happy and means it, for the most part, which hasn’t been true for years. Maybe it could be more, but it isn’t; that’s fine too.

When everything’s shut down and clean for the night, Bucky lingers by his locker, fiddling with the latch. The light in the office is still on, which means Rogers is still here. Not unusual, him being the last one out. If Bucky strains his ears he can hear Natasha’s low voice too—probably talking numbers and produce orders and all the other bullshit that Bucky’s glad he doesn’t have to touch. He likes cooking, not calculating payroll. Steve doesn’t really have to do any of that himself—wouldn’t even have to be in the kitchen if he didn’t want to. He could hire a general manager and a chef de cuisine, then fuck off and let the thing run. That’s not his style, though. Bucky knows from experience: he’s a hands-on kind of person.

Bucky has all his things and there’s no point in waiting anymore. The backdoor squeaks when he heads out into the alleyway. He checks his phone for the time—half past midnight. Maybe he should just call a cab instead of bothering with the train. While he contemplates his travel options, he shakes a cigarette out of the carton in his jacket pocket and lights it. He doesn’t smoke much anymore, and is technically trying to quit, but he’s been on edge half the night with barely a second of breathing room. He’ll smoke half to decompress before he braves the MTA. Try not to think too hard about why he’s got this urge to doddle.

The cigarette is soothing, anyway.

A few stragglers filter out the door and invite him out—Sunday night tradition. The restaurant’s closed on Mondays, so it’s their best opportunity. Bucky goes most weeks, but tonight he turns them down. Wanda and Clint tell him goodnight and wander off, leaving him alone again.

The door whines for the third time, and Bucky spots a flash of scarlet. Natasha.

“Hey, Barnes,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “What’s the hold up?”

He lifts his cigarette in answer. It’s nearly gone.

“Are you coming to the bar?”

“Nah.” Bucky scuffs his shoe on the pavement, avoiding her eyes. “I’m tired.”

“He’ll be out soon,” she says, and Bucky looks at her too sharply; she cracks a smirk. Dammit. He ought to talk to Rogers about that—are they or aren’t they keeping this under wraps? 

“I’m just smoking,” Bucky hedges.

“Sure. Goodnight, Barnes.”

She disappears around the corner. Smoke curls up toward Bucky’s face, and he feels restless now—like if he tries to wait any longer, he’ll turn to haze and fade away too. Maybe he could go back inside. Just for a few minutes, he tells himself. He flicks the cigarette to the pavement and heads for the door, thinking surely there’s something he forgot to clean or something he can put away, be helpful to someone else for Tuesday. Maybe Rogers will hear him clattering around and come to find him. Whatever happens, he can’t stand still out here anymore.

When he pushes through the kitchen door, there’s someone already there.

Rogers has his arms full of shiny clean dishes—grabbed them from the drying rack, probably, and is putting them away. Someone could do it on Tuesday morning. There’s no reason in the damn world Steve would have to do it, except for that he wants to. Some inherent need to be of use, Bucky’s starting to think. He only recognizes it because he operates the same way.

Steve’s humming to himself while he organizes pots and pans. It’s sweet. Something in Bucky’s throat sticks about it.

He clears the feeling with a cough and says, “Need help?”

Steve startles hard and nearly drops the ladle he’s holding. “Jesus fuck,” he shouts, “Barnes, what the hell?”

Bucky fights a smile, but loses handily when Steve whips around to glare at him. God, he likes it too much when Steve looks at him sharp like that. “Sorry.”

“Sure you are.”

“Really.” Bucky shuffles a few steps closer and holds out his hands. “Let me?”

“Suit yourself,” Steve mumbles, and waves a hand toward the pile of dishes on the prep counter. “You’d better put all that stuff in the right place.”

“Yes, chef.”

Bucky strips his jacket off again and lays it on a clear counter. It’s quiet for a few minutes, except for the metallic clatter of cookware. Bucky tries not to think too hard about the way Steve’s eyes keep landing on him and drifting, up and down and over. He just puts things away where they go and lets heat coil low in his gut, anticipating.

“What are you still doing here anyway?” Steve asks. “Why aren’t you with everyone else?”

They’re across from each other now, Bucky double checking his station while Steve straightens things at Clint’s. “I could ask you the same thing,” Bucky says.

“I own the place.”

“Yeah, but you don’t live here.” 

Steve braces his hands on the counter and meets his eye. “You’re avoiding the question.”

Bucky’s gaze flicks down to Steve’s mouth, deliberate. “Because you know the answer.” But that only makes Steve frown, so he continues, “Nat seems to think there’s something going on with us. Any ideas about that?”

“She’s—” Steve sighs and rubs at his beard. “I’m sorry. I would’ve asked you first if I meant to tell her. You know by now what she’s like.”

“It’s fine. Probably. Right?” 

“Probably,” Steve says, eyes flicking toward the door. “It’s late.” He sounds like he means for this to be the end of the conversation.

Bucky sets his teeth. “I’m not tired.”

“You should—”

“You were touching me all night.”

The air in the room seems to thicken. It’s always like this: Steve pretending he doesn’t know that anything is about to happen until it’s happening, and then he’ll grab it with both hands and take control. Like baiting a damn fish. 

But he raises a slow eyebrow and asks,“Was I?”

“Yes.”

“And you think that means—”

“That you want me.”

“Hm.”

“You can have me. We can go—” 

Bucky lets the thought die on his tongue; Steve is circling around the kitchen to get to him, his shoes loud on the tile. “No,” Steve says, and cups the back of Bucky’s neck to hold him. 

Bucky isn’t above begging for it. “Steve. Please.”

“If you’re so desperate, you can have me right here.”

Bucky’s throat clicks when he swallows, his mouth too dry. Right here, Steve wants to fuck him in this kitchen, bent over the stove he’s already spent half the day hunched over and will be back to in a day and a half—

“Yes,” Bucky gasps, “okay, yeah—”

Steve’s smile is slow and slight. For a moment he just stands there, eyes on Bucky’s face, letting the tension build while his thumb digs into the base of Bucky’s skull. It’s sharp, deliberate pressure—grounding. He takes in deep, long breaths through his nose and watches Steve watch him. This close, Bucky can see the smattering of grey in his beard, at his temples, gathered like early snow.

Steve sways in closer and says, “You want me to kiss you, Bucky?”

“I do. Please. Yes.”

“The manners on you. Sweet.” 

Then Steve is dragging Bucky to him, and their mouths meet in a fierce kiss. The small of Bucky’s back hits the stovetop edge and bends, Steve pressing into him, asking Bucky to give and give till there’s no empty space left between their bodies. Bucky groans. Steve bites his lip and kisses him again, tongue on his teeth, possessive and strange. He’s rarely gentle when he kisses Bucky—when he does anything with him. Maybe that’s why the touches tonight had felt so good, and left him so wound up. It’s not that he minds Steve’s intensity, though. The tenderness just felt new.

He pulls back, just enough to press his mouth to Bucky’s cheek—some ladder rung below a kiss. “Did you eat tonight?” Steve asks.

“Yeah,” Bucky says.

Steve’s hand curls around his jaw, tight. “Barnes. You like being caught in a lie?”

“No—”

“Then don’t lie to me. I watch this kitchen like a hawk—I know damn well you never took a break.”

“Then you know damn  _ well _ I never had time to. What’s it matter? Come on, Rogers, I’m fine.”

Steve grabs him by the hips, flips him around till his ass hits the prep counter—and then, easy as anything, Steve lifts him up onto it. Bucky tries to wrap his legs around Steve’s waist, but Steve growls and pushes him away.

“Sit still,” he says. “I’m making you dinner.”

Bucky will never win the argument, but he can’t help still trying to pitch one. “It’s past midnight.”

“And? I said sit.”

Bucky bites back a sigh, though he’s not sure if it’s one of frustration or pleasure. Both, maybe. The counter is uncomfortable, but Bucky does as he’s told—well enough that Steve is smirking when he finally turns away from him. He doesn’t speak while he clatters around the kitchen, sliding the final clean dishes home only to pull more free, intent on dirtying them again. He disappears into the walk-in for a long two minutes and re-emerges with his hands full of things the kitchen hadn’t run out of.

“You don’t have to,” Bucky says.

Rogers levels him an unimpressed look as he dumps ingredients beside him onto the prep space. “Stop arguing, Bucky.”

“It’s just that—”

“What?”

“I thought that…”

Steve pinches his thigh. “Use your words, please.”

“I mean, you’re still gonna fuck me, right?”

Steve’s laugh echoes in the empty kitchen. “Jesus. Yes. Just—” He turns to Bucky, gentler now. “I should have made sure you got a break. Let me fix this, first.”

That odd tenderness again, on his face and in his voice. It makes Bucky’s stomach turn over and over, but he breathes away the feeling. Steve is close enough for Bucky to reach out, so he does, cupping Steve’s face briefly as he says, “Okay.”

Steve’s mouth twitches. “Thank you.”

He moves around a kitchen with something more than confidence—plain and unpretentious familiarity, maybe. Hell, that’s the precise attitude he built a career on. For a man as big as he is, he’s nimble, too. Bucky likes watching him; it’s so rare that he has the opportunity to sit back like this and do just that and only that. Chef Steve Rogers, hard at work, no distractions—all for him.

He’s overwhelming.

He’s… making French toast.

“Oh,” Bucky says.

Steve looks up from where he’s tending the pan, a quiet smirk on his face. The smell of cinnamon and nutmeg wafts through the kitchen. “Technically, it is the morning. This okay?”

“Of course.” Bucky’s chest feels weird and gummy at the idea of Steve making him breakfast.

Everything comes together quickly—the French toast, the blackberry compote, and fresh whipped cream. Steve doesn’t bother with any fancy plating, but it still looks as good as any breakfast Bucky’s ever had. Better, maybe, for the simple fact of who made it for him.

“Here,” Steve says. He cuts a bite with the side of a fork and holds it up for Bucky. “Eat.”

“I can feed myself,” Bucky huffs.

“Open up, baby bird.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but he lets Steve feed him. He sighs as he chews, his face falling into a happy smile—of course it’s delicious. Steve’s face mirrors his.

“That,” he says. “That, right there, is why I became a chef.”

He doesn’t feed Bucky the whole thing, though Bucky might have let him if he tried; he doesn’t mind indulging Steve. But Steve sets the plate by Bucky’s hip and grabs a second fork, and they share the tower of French toast right there, Bucky still on the counter and Steve nestled between his spread legs. Close and intimate. The night’s theme, it feels.

By the time the plate is clean, Bucky feels sticky and saccharine and entirely too sentimental, so he tosses their forks toward the sink and grabs Steve by his belt. The charged energy from earlier snaps back into place—more familiar, easier to deal with. 

“I have been dined,” he says.

“You’re forgetting something.” Steve’s voice is even; it takes just a second to click.

“Thank you,” Bucky tells him.

“You’re very welcome. Are you tired?”

“No.”

“Good. Where were we?”

“Oh, before you interrupted yourself—”

“Bucky,” Steve rumbles, his hands digging hard into Bucky’s thighs. “Be sweet.”

“Hm. Sorry. You’ve got some… berry…”

There’s a purple smudge in the corner of Steve’s mouth, which is always ripe for licking but especially now. Bucky hauls him in closer to kiss it away, and Steve hums and slots their lips together properly. He’s soft about it just for a moment, like he’s demonstrating—but he can’t hold himself back for very long. Bucky knows this; he’s known to take advantage of it. He lets his mouth fall open on a sigh, inviting Steve in, and suddenly Steve is pressed everywhere against him, his beard scratching pink into Bucky’s skin as he kisses him fiercely.

His hands—big, sure, notched with healed burn scars—wander where they like, under Bucky’s shirt and up. Mostly he just likes Bucky to give in to him, so that’s what he does, sighing pleased little noises while Steve mauls his neck. He won’t leave bruises, he’s not that stupid, but it’ll be a damn near thing. One day Bucky hopes to push him enough to leave a mark. He wants it; he doesn’t like thinking too hard about the why.

“These slacks,” Steve murmurs, “don’t really do your ass any favors.”

“That so?” Bucky breathes. Steve palms the body part in question, lifting Bucky off the counter to dig the heels of his hands in harder. Bucky yelps and clings to him for support. “You gonna do my ass any favors?”

He feels Steve’s laugh more than he hears it. “Fuck. You’re not funny.”

“Funny looking.”

Steve’s eyes are on his suddenly, considering. He stares long enough Bucky feels his face start to heat up. “Hmm,” he says, thumbing Bucky’s chin. “You don’t really think so, do you?”

“Rogers. Task at hand.”

“Fine, fine.”

Steve waves a hand at him, then drops it—and grips Bucky’s through his pants. “Jesus,” Bucky gasps, dragging out the syllables while Steve pushes and presses. “Steve, ah, you—”

“C’mere,” Steve says, and drags him off the counter. He keeps his hand firm on Bucky’s cock even as he spins him around and crushes him into the counter. He breathes hot air on Bucky’s nape, thinking about kissing him maybe. His fingers are kinder now, stroking slow. Steve’s hard now too, snug against Bucky’s ass every time he grinds his hips forward. Bucky leans hard on the counter, his hands splayed for stability. The room feels as hot as it did in the middle of dinner, open flames of the stove flickering two feet from his face.

At some point Steve must flip Bucky’s fly loose—he doesn’t notice till Steve is yanking his pants and underwear down to mid-thigh. “Ah,” he sighs, smoothing his palm over Bucky’s ass. “There. See?”

“No.”

He gets a smack for that. “Wasn’t asking you.”

“So you talk to yourself during sex, too. Got it.” 

Steve’s hand comes down harder this time; Bucky jerks away from the hit. “Keep talking, Buck, please.”

“No, I’m—I’m good. Thanks, though.”

Bucky doesn’t really know where this dynamic came from—he’s always liked being smacked around a little, sure, but he’s never so willingly let someone boss him around this way. It feels different. Bigger. Maybe it’s the actual power dynamics at play, boss and employee, older and younger— but when he bothers thinking about it, he’s not sure that’s it.

Maybe it’s just Steve.

Whatever’s going on here, he doesn’t care—he likes it. Makes sure Steve knows that when he starts sliding his hands all over Bucky’s bare skin. Steve reacts to his noises like they resonate with something inside him. His mouth is on Bucky’s neck even as he pushes him forward, till Bucky drops to his elbows on the hard metal of the counter, Steve bent over him, covering him. He rucks Bucky’s shirt up till he’s probably half-naked, proportions-wise if unconventionally. His nails dig half-moons into Bucky’s ribs.

“This is a bad idea,” Steve says under his breath. To himself, most likely—but Bucky’s in earshort.

“Don’t. Don’t start that.”

“Start what? You started it.” Bucky hears the quick sound of a zipper, and then Steve is against him again, bare and hot this time. “Maybe I like bad ideas.”

“I’m learning that,” Bucky huffs.

Steve’s cock presses into his skin. It’s hard to think about much else besides the wet smear it leaves when Steve shifts against him. He grinds backward, looking for more, happy to take whatever Steve will give him—an inch or a mile. Steve’s hand wraps around Bucky’s shoulder and hauls him upright again, back, till Bucky’s cradled against his chest, Steve’s arms around him.

“You kept still so well earlier,” he says into Bucky’s ear. “Can you do it again?”

Bucky nods before he finishes, turning his face into Steve’s neck, just to smell him, sweat and sugar. “Yes. I will—I can.”

“So sweet.” 

Steve kisses him fast and hard, only half on the mouth. He pulls back to step away for just a moment, and Bucky cranes his neck to watch him grab a squeeze bottle from Bucky’s own station—olive oil. 

Bucky snorts. “That’s expensive.”

“Go ahead and walk to my office to grab the lube out of my bag, then.”

“Oh, no, thank you.”

“Then  _ can _ it.” Steve flicks the back of his head. Then he’s crowding in close again and kicking Buck’s ankles together with his non-slide shoes. “And keep these together. Tight, like—” He slots three fingers between Bucky’s thighs. “Like that. Good.”

Bucky drops his head and braces himself, willfully not thinking about where he is, what’s about to happen—what he’ll think about every time he stands over this shining silver prep counter from now until he’s dead or fired. With his eyes open, he can even see a smudge of a reflection—so he squeezes them shut and stays still, like Steve asked.

He inhales at the press of Steve’s dick against the backs of his thighs—deliberate now. Steve’s as insistent as Bucky knows him to be, pushing till he’s slotted between Bucky’s legs. The head of his cock touches Bucky’s balls. He moves placidly at first, smearing oil to wet the way, sighing where his open mouth hovers over Bucky’s shoulder. The sensitive skin of Bucky’s thighs tingles at the touch.

Steve’s hips flex into him, pull back, and drive forward again rough enough to jar Bucky against the counter edge. He gasps and redoubles his grip, but the surface is smooth and his hands are slick, so it’s hard to get any purchase. A few shuddering thrusts and he’s off balance—but Steve just catches him by the hip and shoulder and holds him steady with fierce fingers. His cock keeps gliding between Bucky’s tensed thighs, hot and hard, brushing against Bucky’s balls with every dragging stroke.

It’s good like this, Bucky thinks—Steve behind him, breathing rough, driving every stray thought out of Bucky’s head with each thrust. He’s barely thinking about his own dick. Could ignore it, if Steve asked him to. He’s never done that; maybe Bucky should ask him. Since they’ve formed a habit anyway.

As if reading his mind, the hand at Bucky’s hip smooths over his stomach and down to grab him. “Ah,” Bucky breathes.

“Mm. Hi there,” Steve says, then lays a biting kiss into the side of Bucky’s neck. He starts working him over slowly, half the rate he’s jacking his own dick in the slot of Bucky’s legs. “Why’d you need this tonight? Huh?”

“I don’t—” Bucky groans when Steve’s thumbnail digs into him. “Fuck. Steve, I don’t know—I keep wanting it.”

“Yeah,” Steve says softly. His sharp hip bones may well leave the bruises Bucky wants so bad all over his ass. He slams into him, one, twice—then whines low in his throat and keeps going, even as he’s spilling into the clutch of Bucky’s thighs. 

There’s nothing to contain it, so Steve’s come slips and spreads over Bucky’s legs. Between that and the oil, he’s practically filthy now. Steve is still panting quietly over his shoulder and petting at him possessively like he’s not quite done. Of course he isn’t. His hand’s still loosely circled around Bucky’s hard cock, unmoving.

Bucky makes a noise close to a whimper—awful and desperate. Steve must have found his breath again, because he huffs a laugh, then squeezes hard enough to make Bucky hiss. “What, this?” he says. But he doesn’t wait for an answer, just finds a rhythm, breakneck and unforgiving. Bucky jolts in his arms, but Steve keeps him where he is—snakes his free hand up Bucky’s chest to grip him by the jaw and make him meet Steve’s eye. In the low light of the kitchen, his eyes are deep blue and intense.

“Hey, pretty baby,” he says. “You were so good. You wanna come for me?”

“Jesus. Steve,  _ Steve, _ I’m—ah—”

“Go ahead.”

Bucky shudders, words breaking off into choppy, throaty groans. Steve smiles with his teeth, and Bucky’s coming, pouring over Steve’s fist and onto the counter. His eyes flutter but can’t seem to close, not with Steve looking at him. The feeling goes on for what feels like forever. His knees are weak by the time it fades.

Steve only lets him go when he stops trembling. His body feels lax and worn; he can already feel the soreness in his thighs from keeping them clenched as long as he did. The overhead lights seem too bright now, and he blinks up at them, feeling how tired he actually is for the first time all night. His feet fucking  _ ache. _

“Here,” comes Steve’s low voice, and Bucky turns to see him holding out a damp dishcloth. Bucky hadn’t even noticed him walking away to get it.

“Thanks.” He leans against the counter to assess the damage. “Shit. You made a fucking mess of me, Steve.”

Steve is looking at him with a warm, satisfied smile on his face, like he likes seeing Bucky shiny with high end olive oil and his own come. The fucker probably loves it. “You wipe up my mess,” he says, “and I’ll take care of yours.”

He nods toward the counter, which is equally covered in Bucky’s release. “This is goddamn unsanitary.”

“You liked it.” Steve steps forward to take the cloth from him, once Bucky’s as clean as he’s going to get, and gives the counter a cursory wipe. “I’ll be here tomorrow anyway, so I’ll clean it properly then. Don’t worry about it.”

“Do you take days off?”

“Not really. Come on, here’s your jacket—let’s get out of here.”

They both redress and straighten themselves out. Bucky’s skin is still buzzing and probably will be for hours, but he fits his arms back into his jacket and makes sure all his things are still in his pockets—keys, wallet, phone. Steve is already put together and standing by the door by the time he’s ready to go.

“Walking me out? How gentlemanly,” Bucky says.

“I’m leaving too, asshole.”

“Figured you had a cot in the office, honestly.”

Steve trails him along the hallway toward the back door, flicking lights off as they go. Out in the alleyway again, Bucky waits for him to lock up. The cold night air drags him back into his body a little bit. He’s shaking his hands out when Steve turns around. There’s a pinched, thoughtful look on his face.

“I don’t sleep in my office,” he says slowly. “You know that, right?”

Bucky grimaces. “Rogers, I was kidding.”

“Your apartment’s pretty far.”

“Eh. I take the express, so it’s not so bad.”

“Bucky.” His smile is gentle—almost sheepish. “Stay at mine. It’s closer.”

“Oh,” Bucky says, and then, before he has a chance to think better of it: “Sure. Yes.”

  
  


Closer means a block up the street, apparently, but Bucky’s too tired to bother with much reflection on what it says about Steve that he chose to open a new restaurant practically in the same building where he lives. He’s also too tired to pay much attention to what Steve’s place even looks like—they breeze through to the bedroom, strip, and collapse in a heap of exhausted limbs. It’s a comfortable mattress, Bucky has the cognitive function to notice. Firm.

“Goodnight, Buck,” Steve says, before he flicks the bedside lamp off.

They curl up on opposite ends of the wide, king-size bed at first. Bucky breathes shallowly in the dark, eyes on the ceiling and thinks—well, in for a penny, right? He shifts, slow, like he’s just stretching, until he hears Steve give an almighty sigh before grabbing Bucky by the waist and pulling him against him.

“There,” he says, low in Bucky’s ear. “Settle.” 

He’s out before Steve’s grip ever loosens.

  
  


He wakes up early—pre-dawn, unintentional. He tries to roll over and just sink back to sleep, but when he does, he’s left face-to-face with Steve, slack-jawed in sleep. Deep breaths make his bare chest rise and fall, and on every exhale, he snores just a little bit. Faint enough to still be endearing. He looks peaceful like Bucky’s never seen him, and that makes him smile—and that, in turn, makes him start feeling nervous. So he flips over the way he’d come and slides out of bed, thinking he’ll get a glass of water before coming back. If he comes back.

The apartment is as dark and quiet as New York ever gets, so Bucky doesn’t worry about tripping as he walks up the hall. As he heads into the kitchen, he can’t help but glance around the place. It’s beautifully furnished, all light woods and lighter walls. The kitchen is impeccable: smooth concrete counters, gleaming appliances, a knife’s block stuffed to the brim with brand names Bucky doesn’t have to Google to know he could never afford. He forgets, in the kitchen with him day by day, that Steve is rich as shit. He doesn’t act like it. Bucky’s read enough about him to know that he wasn’t always.

He gets his glass of water and wanders back into the living room. It looks comfortable but spare, like Steve doesn’t spend much time here, wearing in the couches. Fucking workaholic. The built-in bookcases are stacked with signed copies of cookbooks and memoirs from every chef of note from the last few years—gifts, probably. There’s no copies of Steve’s own book anywhere in sight, but that’s okay; Bucky has a well-worn edition back at his place.  _ An American Kitchen, _ it’s called, and it has Steve’s smiling face on the cover, which is probably half the reason it’s still a bestseller. That, and it’s a damn good cookbook.

It’s strange, being here. Especially with Steve asleep—it feels like prying.

He traipses through the rest of the apartment despite himself, though. The second bedroom is mostly an office, with a futon along one wall. The desk is stacked with pages of what looks like research, and there’s a little tin full of recipe cards left open next to the computer keyboard. Maybe Steve is working on another book. He doesn’t talk about himself enough for Bucky to know.

Bucky winds up in the bathroom off Steve’s bedroom, half to explore and half because he’s accepted he probably won’t be getting back to sleep, so he may as well clean up properly. He cuts the rainfall shower on and steps under the spray once it’s warm to the touch. The soap in the dish smells like Steve does sometimes—bergamot and sage. 

When he’s clean, he grabs for a plush towel and then slips the robe hanging on the back of the door over his shoulders. He doesn’t have much of a plan for what to do next. Maybe he ought to just get dressed and leave Steve to sleep in in his own home. He’ll see him again tomorrow.

But when he pushes open the door, Steve is sprawled on his back on the bed, blinking at the light streaming out of the bathroom. He rubs at his eyes. “Bucky?”

“Sorry,” Bucky says. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Shit. Come here, try harder.”

Steve slides his hand over the sheets, palm up, a clear invitation. Bucky’s chest pulls tight like guitar strings, liable to snap—but he’s powerless to do much else besides crawl right back onto the mattress. The loose tie on the robe falls apart when he moves, so that he’s mostly naked when he sidles up to Steve. He’s tentative about pressing against him, but Steve circles both arms around his ribcage and hauls him in.

“Well, good morning,” Steve rumbles, still sleep-rough.

Bucky huffs. His skin, flushed from the shower, only grows pinker when Steve smooths his palms over him. “Thought you wanted to go back to sleep.”

“I can multitask.”

That sets Bucky laughing. “Jesus,” he says. “Just lie back.”

Steve seems content to let Bucky misbehave however he likes right now, so Bucky eases back the covers and slides down Steve’s body. He sucks Steve off till he’s hard and ready, panting while the light of early morning filters in through the windows. The bed creaks when Bucky settles himself over Steve’s hips, the robe pooling around them, and he holds on tight to the headboard while Steve fucks him dry and hard enough that he’s damn grateful he won’t have to be on his feet all day today. They forgot about a condom but Bucky hasn’t slept with anyone else in months anyway, and he likes the feeling of Steve’s come slowly leaking out of him as he collapses back into the bed and finally, finally drifts back into sleep.

  
  


He wakes up again swathed in the buttery yellow sunlight of midmorning. The bed’s empty, and Steve’s robe is tangled around his torso. His calves ache from his shift, and his hole still twinges from how thoroughly Steve fucked it—what, a few hours ago?

“Christ,” Bucky sighs, and hopes to God that Steve is as lonely as he seems, so they don’t need to worry about that impromptu foray into unprotected sex. He hauls himself out of the bed with considerable effort, half-wondering where Steve’s gone off to, mostly concerned with locating his pants.

He drags yesterday’s clothes back on before braving the hallway. When he pushes the door open, he doesn’t really register the smell or sound of cooking food, too intent on remembering where the hell he dropped his bag last night. The couch, maybe, or the entry table on their way in.

Rogers twists to look at him over his shoulder when Bucky blunders into the room—and for a moment, he’s smiling, warm and open.

It falters. “You going somewhere?” he asks.

“Um.” Bucky frowns, thumbing toward the door. “Well. Home?”

“Oh,” Rogers says, and turns away. It’s only then that Bucky notices where he’s standing—over the stove. “Stick around for another twenty minutes, at least. I’m already cooking for two.”

“You’re worse than my mother.”

Rogers huffs something like a laugh, throwing a half-hearted smile over his bare shoulder. He hadn’t bothered to get dressed at all, except for a pair of clean briefs, which Bucky sees once he settles himself on a barstool at the island. It’s impossible to pass up Rogers’ cooking, he tells himself.

“What are you making?” Bucky asks.

“Trout,” Rogers says. “How do you like your eggs?”

“Oh. Over-medium’s good.”

“That Barnes precision.”

“Do you need any help?”

“Nah, I got it. I know you like watching anyway.”

Bucky’s laugh shakes his nerves up like a jar of bees. They’ve never done this—the morning after, breakfast, any of it. Hell, they’ve never fucked twice in one night before, either, and Steve’s certainly never come inside him before tonight. A hell of a lot of firsts. Bucky swallows and sits up straighter.

Rogers—Steve, fuck, that’s his name when his shirt’s off, Barnes—Steve plates up their food as efficiently as any short order diner cook and passes Bucky’s to him across the island. “Coffee black, right?” he says, reaching for a French press sitting near the stovetop.

“I’ll take cream, if you have it,” Bucky says.

Steve’s cheeks flush before Bucky realizes what he’s said. “Cream on the weekends,” he says, grinning. “Got it.”

“Fuck,” Bucky sighs, while Steve is rummaging through his sparsely stocked fridge for a container of half-and-half. “That was—”

“I’m clean,” Steve tells him. “We should have discussed it first, I know, but—I’m clean.”

“Oh. Well… me too.”

“Great,” Steve says, and pours cream into two mugs before sliding one to Bucky. 

They tuck in, Steve apparently content to stand at the island across from him, unself-conscious about all his bare, beautiful skin. And why should he be? This is his home, after all; Bucky’s the only one trying to run out. The trout’s good, and Bucky’s eggs are perfectly cooked—not that he expected any less from Chef Rogers. He eats and tries not to look at Steve’s handsome, pensive face or the faint bite mark on his shoulder, wondering what he’s going to do with the rest of his day after this. What Steve does on the days he isn’t obligated to be at the restaurant.

“Are you—” he starts.

“You know—” Steve says, then breaks off, smirking. He waves his fork toward Bucky. “Go ahead, Buck.”

“I was just going to ask if you’re working on another book.” Bucky winces; they don’t do any of this either. “Sorry. I, uh, may have snooped around a little in the middle of the night.”

Steve’s eyebrows raise. “You went in my office?”

“For like, two minutes. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s—it’s okay. Really.” Steve clears his throat, pushing the last few pieces of trout around his plate. “To answer your question… maybe. I haven’t actually told my publisher about it yet, but I’m working on compiling all my—all my mother’s old recipes.” 

Bucky inhales, surprised—at what Steve said, and the fact that he said it at all. “Oh, wow.”

“I guess it’ll be a… a memoir, when it’s done. Something like that. I’m trying to contextualize all of her recipes, too, not just present them as-is, you know? My memories of them and all that.”

“That—Steve, that sounds amazing.”

Steve bites his lip, but he’s smiling, even if it’s nervous. “You think so?”

“Yeah. Yes. I can’t wait to read it someday.”

Steve takes a long, deep breath. “Thank you. I’m sorry, I know I haven’t—brought any of this up with you before. Most of the menu at the restaurant’s based on her cooking, you know.”

“I didn’t, actually.”

“Well, now you do.” 

Silence hangs between them for a beat, loaded but oddly comfortable. Steve is still wearing that faint smile, and his shoulders seem looser somehow. Like maybe he’s happy to be sharing more than a bed with Bucky. He takes their empty plates to the sink and starts washing them while Bucky wonders what’s changed in the last twelve hours, between them. Something has.

“Earlier,” Bucky says, “you were going to ask me something.”

“Oh.” Steve squints, his mouth flat again. “It was nothing. Go on, go enjoy your day off—I’m sure you’ve got things to do.”

“Rogers.” Bucky stands from the stool and goes to him, covering Steve’s forearm with his hand. Steve pauses in his scrubbing. “What is it? I know you’re not being timid with me.”

“Mm. I’ve just been thinking lately…” He cuts the sink off and turns to Bucky, reaching out to tug on a lock of his messy, air-dried hair. “I’d like it if you didn’t leave. If we spent the day together.”

Bucky feels the smile on his face before what Steve said quite settles in his head. “Yeah?”

“It’s up to you.”

“What did you have in mind?”

Steve laughs, and tugs his hair properly. “I don’t know. We could see a movie.”

“Wow. Could we?”

“You fucking brat,” Steve says, but he yanks Bucky by the nape against him, and Bucky goes willingly enough to bury his face in Steve’s neck. “We can do whatever you want. I just want you to stay.”

It’s not true to say that Bucky hadn’t dared hope for this—he’s been hoping for months; maybe since the first time Steve kissed him, after he threw the lock on the bathroom door on opening night. Maybe even longer than that. That first time he saw Steve’s picture in a  _ New York Magazine _ feature on his first restaurant, when Bucky was 16 and dreaming.

No. He remembers the moment—the first time he met Steve, back at his old job, when his head chef told him someone wanted to speak with him and he’d walked into the dining room to find Steve Rogers smiling for him. He complimented Bucky’s cooking and touched his wrist when he said  _ I’m looking for chefs for a new restaurant. Are you interested? _

“Yeah,” Bucky said that night—says, back in Steve’s kitchen, his strong arms. He kisses him, firm and sweet. “Yes, Steve. I’m happy you asked.”


End file.
